Quote

"As a writer, you should not judge, you should understand."
— Ernest Hemingway
"If by a "Liberal" they mean someone who looks ahead and not behind, someone who welcomes new ideas without rigid reactions, someone who cares about the welfare of the people, their health, their housing, their schools, their jobs, their civil rights, and their civil liberties, someone who believes we can break through the stalemate and suspicions that grip us in our policies abroad, if that is what they mean by a "Liberal," then I'm proud to say I'm a "Liberal." - John F. Kennedy

Boredom came easy to Millicent. An only child born to aloof, unhappy parents, she spent a lot of time alone with her imagination. Floating around the room humming a pop song she heard an hour earlier, she was sure the young woman in the bathroom would accept her imposing charm. She plotted the groggy killer’s makeover while breaking down the IV stand that nursed the patient back to health from cyanide poisoning

“Pauley, you need some foundation on that washed out face, a sleek hairstyle and accessories.”

Millicent opened her Prada handbag, removed her compact and smiled at the two silver bracelets she’d worn the night before.

Pauley’s cell phone jumped on the night stand. Millicent rolled her eyes and picked it up. She took in a slow, measured breath then calculated her exhale. Adopting a pageant contestant-like smile for the caller, Pauley’s boss, and her debtor, Butch; she went back to work.

“Hello, Butch. Everything is copasetic. Your Pauley is on her feet, taking much needed fashion advice, and ready to use that damn gun she loves.”

A small wave of nausea rolled through Millicent’s stomach. Having to associate with Butch and Pauley was unacceptable to her. The Stingley family was an upper class brood of intelligent, sophisticated scientists. Her father’s weak constitution had incurred gambling losses and Millicent was called to cover them. Butch seemed pleased.

“I knew you’d get Pauley through this mess. You two getting along is aces. Listen Millie, I’m on my way to the hotel. Stay put and work your glam girl magic. It’ll come in handy for what I’ve got next.”

Millicent cringed at the nickname but found the small silver hoops next to her emergency cyanide pill case. She walked over to the bathroom and heard Pauley knocking about.

“Butch, you said my family’s business would be complete after I got your little pit bull back in the pen chasing her ball. I have a conference tomorrow with a British pharmaceutical firm.”

Millicent walked back to the nightstand to pick up Pauley’s weapon. She contemplated opening the clip but figured if Butch wanted her for something she’d be safe from Pauley’s trigger finger. She knocked on the bathroom door and heard Pauley grumble something snarky. Butch continued.

“Millie, I need ya. Plus, Artie’s not answering my calls.”

Artie was her father, Arthur Stingley. After his second divorce and the loss of his government contracting job, he’d become erratic and unreliable. Millicent knew he’d come around and be the man she’d looked up to all her life.

“Arthur is probably in his lab in Atlanta, Butch. When he gets focused on a project he’s so tunnel-visioned. So, is this next thing in New York? I don’t have to use a gun, do I?”

Millicent knocked on the door again and raised her voice to ask Pauley if she needed help. Butch mumbled some instructions.

She sniffed and mouthed “damn it” to show her disdain for the repeated nickname and more association with Butch and Pauley. For now, the earrings, bracelets, and someone to play dress up with would have to sustain her.

You had me at Prada bag.
I love the word copasetic, my dad said it all the time and my senior year in college “my word” was “aces” , ask anyone, so I almost felt like Millicent today, barring the killing and poisoning, of course.

I just really like this story, the women are relatable and kind of crazy (like women can be), so it works, you believe it and them.